


until some other day

by Feather (lalaietha)



Series: (even if i could) make a deal with god [your blue-eyed boys related short-fic] [55]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky has a warped sense of humor, Disabled Character, M/M, Mentally Ill Character, Slice of Life, banter and snark, bickering is affection, the weird habits of cats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-02
Updated: 2014-10-02
Packaged: 2018-02-19 15:40:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2393861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lalaietha/pseuds/Feather
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You know when the last time I heard this song was?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	until some other day

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is part of [**this series**](http://archiveofourown.org/series/132585), which is for short-fic associated with my fic [**your blue-eyed boys**](http://archiveofourown.org/series/107477), because I needed somewhere to stash it. 
> 
> This fic is entirely because on rewatch I was reminded how, ah, pointed the soundtrack right here was. [The song in question, for anyone who needs a refresher](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vJFf29jUnrs), just ignore the little fanfare at the beginning.

Bucky's interest in music arrives more or less like flicking a switch. 

One day, music's irrelevant at best, obnoxious at worst; the next he's pulling out Steve's record collection and finding "Such-and-such genre through the decades" programs on the radio or podcasts. It almost seems to Steve like Bucky's brain just hit a point where it finally had any space or energy at all to dedicate to the question, so now, suddenly, it's interesting. 

Personally, Steve hadn't ever dedicated a _lot_ of thought to the subject. He'd found some stuff he liked; he'd found some stuff he definitely _didn't_ ; and then some stuff like the interesting backroads of modern jazz that it was hard to say he liked, but which he liked the idea of, and listened to sometimes just for that. 

Now he by default gets a kind of erratic tour through the twentieth century on a global scale, with the occasional side-bump of "who the Hell knows _why_ that slightly obscure Beatles song did that, but it's never playing anywhere near you again", which is probably inevitable. Well. Almost certainly inevitable. 

And the occasional discussion that boils down to, "Tony, your taste is seriously suspect, stop helping," which was definitely inevitable. 

It starts the way almost everything does, where obviously something in Bucky's head figures if he's not broadly familiar with every possible genre, country and anything else under the sun, the tigers will come in their sleep or something - at first it really isn't about anything he cares about, just about learning as much as possible as fast as possible. That phase lasts for a while, and Steve comes to the conclusion that the symphonic world lost its mind at about the same time, mid-century, as the art world and the philosophy world lost theirs. 

"What exactly," he asks Bucky at one point, squinting at the speakers, "is the difference between this and a kid smashing his hands around on a piano?" 

"Pretension and years of music school," Bucky replies, eyes closed and frowning. "Plus the kid probably has better rhythm because he isn't trying to be as off-putting as possible. The composer and your big-blue-rectangle artist should get together."

When Bucky slowly moves from _expose myself to everything_ into actually gathering some stuff he likes, the results are pretty unsurprising: he and Steve have considerable overlap, a lot of what these days counts as _nostalgia_ when it comes to whole genres, and then a definite trend of Bucky tending towards the darker, sharper end of things. 

Mercedes is directly responsible for the systematic accumulation of everything Johnny Cash ever wrote, performed or collaborated on, which at least makes her gleefully proud of herself. 

 

This morning, Steve's not really paying attention. He can hear that Bucky has music on, through the walls and the noise of the shower and the bathroom fan, but since Bucky never turns it up much and the building is alive with water in the pipes and traffic outside and every other noise of a normal morning, the stray notes of mostly-bass don't resolve themselves into a melody until Steve's actually flicking the light and fan off and stepping out into the hall. 

And then they do. Right about the time the last song on this particular record starts. 

Bucky squints at him from where he's lying on the floor in the patch of weak winter sun, when Steve comes through to the dining room out of the kitchen and hands him one of the chocolate croissants he'd picked up earlier. "What?" he asks, telling Steve that the slightly wry half-smile hadn't actually managed to clear his face yet. 

Steve debates his answer, then debates whether or not he should warn Bucky that this is really only the awful kind of funny, then realizes how ridiculous that would be, shakes his head, leans on the table and says, "You know the last time I heard this song?" 

"Obviously not," Bucky points out, right hand behind his head. Today appears to be a compromise day, where chairs are bad and so is cold, so he's lying on the larger of the fleece blankets folded double, near one of the registers, in the sun. But he looks okay, otherwise. 

Steve rubs the back of his neck and says, "Just about right before you shot Nick Fury through the wall of my DC place." 

It takes a minute, probably because Bucky hadn't actually been paying attention to what song it actually _is_ until just about then and had to rerun the words and place it, since there's obviously a joke in there - but then he does start laughing. 

A lot. Enough that he rolls over onto his side while Steve sighs, arms folding, and says, "Yeah, pretty much," and then waits until Bucky gets a hold on himself and sits up. 

"That," Bucky says, sounding delighted, "is fucking _awful_." 

"Yup," Steve agrees, folding his arms. "I mean it was just what was in the record player when I left, and turning it on was just Fury's way of letting me know something was up before I came in, but on a, ah, I dunno, cosmic level -" 

"That's fucking _hysterical_ ," Bucky says, leaning back on his hands. "That's fucking terrible. I love it." 

"Yeah, I thought you would," Steve replies, as he gets up to turn the record player off after the song ends, "your sense of humour is just about that warped." 

"Hey, you think it's funny, too," Bucky retorts, as Steve goes back into the kitchen to pour them both coffee and grab his own chocolate croissant. And Steve has to grant him that one. It is kinda funny. 

"I'd blame you," Steve counters, "but you'd probably use it as an excuse to beat yourself sometime when I'm not looking." He sits down on the couch, and then ducks as Bucky chucks a small piece of his croissant at his head. 

"Smart-ass. I'm fine with taking the credit for the sophistication of your sense of humour," Bucky replies, sardonic. "It'll help off-set the other ways I've fucked you up." 

Steve gives him a long look and chucks the croissant-piece back. "You," he says, "are completely damn ridiculous."

"And you're a sentimental mope," Bucky says, ducking that by turning it around, "Jesus, how long did you have that on the turntable? Do I even want to know?" 

Steve stops himself from making a face. "Longer than I have any intention of admitting right now," he says, with completely faked dignity, and ignores the only slightly-theatrical way Bucky rolls his eyes and covers his face with his right hand. 

After he lets that hand drop, Steve squints at the angle of Bucky's collarbone for a minute; Bucky catches him, sighs, and says, "Yes, my shoulder's fucked up again. It's not - " 

"So come here," Steve says, matter-of-fact, ignoring the attempt to say it doesn't matter. They both know damn well Bucky's shoulder-blade could be in three separate pieces and he'd try to say it wasn't a big deal. By now those are definitely filler words, easily translated to wary guilt and so absolutely best left ignored. 

"Finish your croissant," Bucky deflects. 

Someone in the building shuts off their shower, the water in the pipes stops running, and it becomes possible to hear the soft rattle of the shower door as Abrikoska indulges one of her stranger habits and licks water droplets off of it, completely failing to notice she's getting soaked by the swimming shower floor as she does it. Sometimes Steve idly wonders if the infection that made her blind also damaged parts of her brain. It's not her only weird quirk. 

"Come here," Steve counters, "and I'll finish my croissant." 

Bucky shoots him a disgruntled look that just barely covers relief at losing the argument, and rolls himself to his feet with a show of reluctance. "Now who's being damn ridiculous?" he mutters, coming over to sit down again in front of Steve. 

"You," Steve replies, "still. Eat _your_ croissant." 

"Nag," Bucky grumbles. 

"Martyr," Steve says, bland, and enjoys the slightly betrayed look it gets him. Either Bucky doesn't have a retort, or at least he doesn't have one he wants to pay the escalation for, so he shoves Steve's knee instead. 

The kitten trots out of the hall, leaving little wet paw-prints all the way across the floor and providing a distraction as she responds to Bucky tapping the fingers of his left hand on the wood of the floor by changing her direction and heading for them, and the couch. The entire bottom half of her is wet, implying she's been lying down in the shower again, and Bucky frowns as he picks her up under her belly with his right hand. 

"What is wrong with you, cat?" he asks. She responds by putting a damp paw on his nose. Steve refrains from commenting, and finishes his croissant.


End file.
